Wishes for the Weak
by Incog Ninja
Summary: In the words of Norman Reedus: "Mac is kind of… He, uh, makes crystal meth. He's a sex freak. He's a rapist, he's a murderer. He is the son. He, uh, is the bad guy." Rated M for voyeurism, masturbation, mentions of blood play, and references to rape.


**AN: I've been wanting to write Mac for a very long time, but I couldn't reconcile my feelings for how he looks (Reedus) and Mac's character - until this weekend. This fic was partially inspired by Elle Gardner's idea to write our favorite Reedus characters fapping (please check out Reedus Fap Fest 2013 at this site) for which I wrote a short one-shot featuring Ray Perso from Moscow Chill. This fic might possibly expand, I'm not sure yet, so let me know what you think?**

It's never been about control for Mac, though he uses his power and natural dominance to his advantage. It's bleak and desolate—destruction, rage, anarchy, those are the things he sees and creates, brings to the forefront, always, with utter clarity and satisfaction. But he never catches that feeling of bliss that he subconsciously chases. It's fleeting—not for him.

Mac tosses the half-empty beer bottle away as he walks to his way to his truck. Fucking Devon and his fucking friends showed up at the Luna Mesa. He brought his smart, pretty sorority girlfriend with him. And he brought Regina. What the fuck Devon is ever thinking, Mac will never know. He knows that Devon's monumentally fucked in the head—not that the rest of them aren't, but Devon's a special kind of fucked.

That night in the cave, Devon crying and saying 'no', like he didn't want Regina that way. Mac knew better. It's not like you just wake up one day and decide to fuck your sister. It was dormant, always lurking—if anything Mac did him a favor by bringing it out, giving him permission. Mac chuckles to himself as he climbs inside his truck, imagining he's some kind of guardian angel, granting wishes and dreams to the weak who can't grab what they want for themselves.

"Pussies," he mutters, starting the engine and putting the truck into gear. Gravel crunches under his tires as he powers the truck out of the parking lot. Devon's voice rings in his ears, lying to Regina that "it's not the fucking truck!" Devon is such a liar. He lies to everyone, including himself. He looks at Mac like Mac's the evil one, the bad guy, the rapist and murderer. Devon's hands are clean in his lies, but Mac knows the truth.

Mac takes the long way home, smokes six cigarettes and lights another as he parks his truck on the side of the road. He's about a quarter of a mile from the Ashton house. He kills the lights and sits quietly, letting his eyes adjust to the black night as he finishes his smoke.

He shoulders the heavy door open and hops to the ground, flicking his cigarette out into his path, then twists the life out of it with the toe of his boot. He slips his hands under the flannel tied around his waist and into the pockets of his pants, absently kicks a rock to the side, and strolls toward the house.

The lights are on and he can hear music and laughter. As he draws closer, he can see Devon sitting in a chair, all emo and brooding—probably still butthurt over Mac dancing with his sorority girl. She asked for it, though, literally. She asked him to dance. And she was smiling. She didn't pull away and she didn't flinch. She may have been playing hard-to-get, but she was definitely playing. She was in it, and Mac knew it; Devon knew it, too.

So, there Devon sits, moping and sad-like, watching his slutty girlfriend flirt with that douche cousin of his; which is another hilarious side to the whole story, since Tom looks just like Devon and Regina's whore mother—just like Regina. Regina…

Mac sighs and comes to stop beneath the window just behind where Devon sits inside. Mac would never say he has regrets about anything, but he wishes that Regina would get off her ass and stop being such a tool, allowing Devon to use her in his game. Nobody can be that clueless, Mac thinks, and it's kind of pathetic. He thinks there's so much wasted potential there; she could wreak a lot of fucking havoc all on her own, but together, they'd be unstoppable. He saw that look she gave him in the cave. She may not be as aware of it as Devon's sorority slut, but it's there, sleeping.

Mac knows Regina's father, his father, and the sheer cunning that swirls in his blood, like it's what makes it all up, makes the blood liquid and whole, what pushes it through his veins. Yeah, it's more than blood; it's his heart. Whatever. The point is, it's in his DNA and he passed it on to all of them—to Mac and Devon and Regina. That trait is too strong to have missed her, and she just allows it to lay hidden. Kind of the way Devon did until Mac brought it to life that night in the cave. Now Devon takes what he wants when he wants it. Mac can see in his profile that what he wants is to shoot Tom in the face with a shotgun.

Mac stifles his own laughter at the thought, wondering just what Devon hates the most about Tom. Is it that he looks like their mother? Is it that he's clearly more comfortable in his own skin and purpose, thereby sailing through life without a care in the world? Or is it that he has his hands all over Devon's girlfriend, like Mac had less than two hours before? Mac doubts it's the latter, since he's pretty sure that bitch is nothing but a smokescreen for who Devon really is deep down inside. After all, it's not like Devon can take his sister to his fraternity shit as his date, right?

Such a sick fuck, Mac thinks, palming his hard cock through his work pants, squeezing, watching Devon's girlfriend tease Tom and piss off Devon. Regina's huddled on the couch, with that other dude, who Mac wonders how he got there. He seems like the only normal one. Gonna get caught in the crossfire, for sure, Mac thinks, popping the button on his pants and pushing his hand down inside, feeling the teeth of the zipper scrape his skin as it separates around the force. He hisses in pleasure and twists his hand, letting the metal dig into his skin. It's good, but it isn't enough.

He braces his hand against the side of the house, bites his bottom lip until the skin breaks. He tears it, and smells then tastes the fresh copper, all while loosely stroking his hot, smooth hard-on. He twists his wrist and pulls, blood from his lip, trickling down his chin. He reaches up to touch it, swipes his middle fingers through the warmth of it. He can smell the musk from his groin on his fingertips and his eyes flick to where Regina sits balled in the corner of the couch. Then he drops his hand back down to where he's jutting from his open pants. He smears the quickly cooling blood with the pre-cum on the head of his cock and pulls the mixture down over his length.

The first time he tasted someone's blood besides his own was Regina's. It was the summer before he got his truck, the summer before the cave, and they were out riding. Regina crashed. She wasn't going fast enough to break any bones, but she scraped her skin up good. Mac circled back to get her before Devon even knew what was happening. By the time Devon figured out that he'd lost them and had come back to see what was up, Mac had his lips wrapped around her delicate wrist, his tongue probing her ruined skin and lapping at the sharp, bright taste of her wound. Devon acted horrified—the self-righteous prick. Of course that was before he finally accepted what was growing inside him. Mac was honest about it, at least.

Years later and Regina doesn't remember a thing about their past. She doesn't remember the crackle and hum between them before and after that day he tasted her. She barely remembers the cave, but what she does remember of it seems to haunt and confuse her, by Mac's estimation. He finds this frustrating, and he blames it completely on Devon.

Mac thinks of the last time he tasted Regina's blood, and his hand moves faster. He squeezes and twists his cock harder, and his fingers scrape the flaking paint from the wood siding of the house. He feels the particles gather and dig under his fingernails. He watches Regina rest her head on the arm of the couch, her gaze following Devon's girlfriend and Tom as they continue their drunken game of annoying the fuck out of Devon. He wonders what Regina thinks of Devon's girlfriend—if she thinks of her at all with the amount of drugs Devon pumps into her. He wonders if Regina's ever thought about playing with Devon's girlfriend they way she used to play with him and Devon and every other guy in town. Too bad she doesn't remember any of that, he thinks, digging his teeth into the bite on his bottom lip, the taste of his own blood making him miss hers.

Mac drops his head and closes his eyes. He pulls the blood from his lip inside his mouth, works up his saliva, then opens his eyes in time to watch his spit drip onto the head of his cock. He swipes his thumb over it and lets it leak into his hand, between his palm and his shaft. He closes his hand tight around his cock again and renews his efforts for the end game.

He drags his gaze back to the scene in front of him, Devon still oblivious to his presence. His strokes are suddenly lightning quick, and rough as ever. It's the girlfriend's laugh that finally pushes him over the edge—unapologetic in its expression of pleasure and satisfaction; that's who she is.

There's a second wave to his orgasm upon the realization that the sorority girl may be well suited to him. She may be just what he's always wanted, everything he hoped that Regina would be. Maybe that's what Devon saw in her but never allowed himself to acknowledge or embrace.

Mac doesn't bother cleaning himself, or the filthy side of the house. The Ashton place is almost as much of a shithole as his anyway. He watches Devon stand from the chair and pull his girlfriend away from Tom, as he tucks himself back into his pants, then fastens his button and zipper. He backs away from the house, digging in his pocket for his cigarettes, shakes one into his mouth, past his bruised and torn lip, and lights it.

As he turns and walks away toward his truck, his smile turns to a grimace at the thought of what Devon will have planned for his friends. He's not going to let Devon have everything, like he always wants. Mac isn't even sure he'll let him have Regina after the shit he's pulled lately. Devon doesn't deserve half of what he wants.

Mac climbs into his truck and pulls away, his cigarette glowing in the dark cab and his thoughts racing pleasantly in his mind.

**Thank you, Rhanon Brodie, for reading and waving your pom poms; you know this wasn't easy for me. xox**


End file.
